


Lighting Up

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cigarettes, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade stubbed his cigarette out on the stone and stood up decisively.</p><p>“Do you want to get out of here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archea2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/gifts).



> Minor spoilers for season 3 (written before the BFI screening). Many thanks to [nox_candida](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida) for the beta!
> 
> Written for the [Rant Meme Christmas Fic Exchange](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10843.html).

Sherlock took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled gratefully, watching the smoke curl and dissipate in the darkness.

He was leaning on the stone balustrade of a balcony overlooking formal gardens, listening to the faint strains of disco music. The reception was still in full swing. John and Mary had left ten minutes earlier, looking flushed and disgustingly happy, and Sherlock had escaped out of a side door to get some fresh air because if he had to spend one more minute making small talk he would have _lost his mind_.

It had been a beautiful day, as every single person he’d spoken to had felt the need to point out. His cheeks ached from grimacing for photos, his ears ached from listening to interminable speeches, his feet ached from being trodden on by Molly, and his brain was ready to _explode_ from having fulfilled every other meaningless social obligation that could possibly have been inflicted on him. It had been tedious beyond belief. Only John’s presence and the thought of this moment had kept him intact, and now John was gone.

The smell of cigarette smoke mingled unpleasantly with the faint smell of roses. Sherlock plucked the flower from his buttonhole and tossed it cheerfully over the side of the balcony. He took another drag and sighed with pleasure as the nicotine buzzed through his veins.

There was a burst of noise as the door swung open behind him, followed by soft footsteps echoing on the stone. Sherlock scowled at the darkness and tensed, ready for flight. If they asked _one_ question he’d-

“Thought I’d find you out here,” said Lestrade. 

Sherlock relaxed, fished in his trouser pocket and held out the half-empty cigarette packet without looking. Lestrade tugged one out and lit it. He took a long, slow drag before settling himself next to Sherlock, elbows nearly touching.

“You sulking?”

“No.” Sherlock exhaled slowly, a grey plume of denial. “I’m positively giddy with delight. John and Mary are the happiest couple in the history of heterosexual relationships, and I’m sure domestic tedium will suit them both marvellously.”

“If that’s the first draft of your speech then I take back what I said earlier.”

They smoked their cigarettes in silence, side by side, looking out into the shadows.

Sherlock turned, very slightly, so that he could look at Lestrade without being noticed. He looked much the same as he had before Sherlock had left – handsome, confident, and a little tired. He wore his looks as well as he wore his new suit, with the casualness of someone who had always been good-looking and so took it for granted.

Lestrade was the only person who hadn’t bombarded Sherlock with endless questions when he’d returned. (Yes, he knew that John had been upset. No, he couldn’t have let anyone known he was alive. Yes, it had been quite dangerous at times but mostly it had been appallingly dull – days and weeks and months of mind-numbing routine police work, with no room for showing off and no-one to show off to even if he could. Yes, he was glad to be back, though he soon wouldn’t be if people wouldn’t stop _asking questions_.)

Lestrade had rushed round to Baker Street as soon as he’d heard. He’d stared at Sherlock, sworn a lot and eventually hugged him. When he’d finally let go they’d stood in embarrassed silence until Sherlock had remembered an emergency pack of cigarettes hidden under a loose floorboard. Lestrade had grinned at him and lit up for the first time in three years, and that had been that.

“They’re good together, you know.”

“Yes.” Sherlock _did_ know. Not only was Mary a much better match for John than any of his previous girlfriends, he was uncomfortably aware that his fast-paced reconciliation with John was in no small part due to her intervention. If John absolutely had to abandon Sherlock for romance, he supposed that John could have chosen a worse person to do it with.

“Did you ever-“ Lestrade paused.

“What?”

“Never mind.” The words seemed to hang in the cool night air for a moment before they drifted away on the breeze. Lestrade stubbed his cigarette out on the stone and stood up decisively.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Sherlock turned, looked at him, considered the matter.

“Yes.”

Lestrade’s grin was bright in the moonlight.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Sherlock met Lestrade was in a tiny cafe just round the corner from New Scotland Yard. Lestrade was wolfing down a cheese sandwich with one hand and flicking through a case file with the other.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade looked up warily. “Hello. Do I know you?”

Sherlock pulled out a seat on the opposite side of the table and sat down. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Sorry,” said Lestrade with a quick, polite smile. “Married.” He held up his left hand so that Sherlock could see his wedding ring.

Sherlock scowled. “Not that sort of proposition. And your wife’s cheating on you.”

“What?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain then shut it again. If he antagonised Lestrade now, it might be months before he got another opportunity. “Never mind. If you want to solve the Stockwell case, let me look at the leaves found at the scene.”

That got Lestrade’s attention. For the first time he looked at Sherlock properly, assessing the various possibilities - harmless nutter, dangerous nutter, accomplice, murderer.

“Not what you’re thinking,” said Sherlock. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“No such thing.”

“Until now.” He handed Lestrade a crisp white business card that simply said ‘Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective’ followed by his mobile number.

Lestrade looked at the card carefully before putting it down in front of him. “How do you know about the leaves? That wasn’t in the paper.”

“It’s obvious from the nanny’s statement and the photos of the garden.”

“You could just tell me what you know. If it pans out-”

“No,” said Sherlock, shaking his head. “You have to call me in. That’s how it works.”

“Money?”

“Not important.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was feeling public-spirited?”

“No.” 

Sherlock grinned. “Good. I’ll be seeing you, Detective Inspector.” He stood up and left without looking back.

...

Lestrade called, of course.

And of course, Sherlock solved the case. Inside of twenty minutes and he caught a passing burglar for good measure.

“Nice work,” said Lestrade afterwards as he walked Sherlock off the scene.

Sherlock shrugged. “Obvious.”

“To you. What do you get out of this?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that you enjoyed that more than any normal person would.”

“Beats being bored. You still don’t trust me.”

“Should I?”

“In general? Probably not. I happen to be telling the truth about this, though.” Sherlock took a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, put one in his mouth and waved the packet at Lestrade.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lestrade took one. “Ta.” He lit it then, to Sherlock’s surprise, he then leaned across and held the flame to the tip of Sherlock’s cigarette. Their pace slowed as they both took deep inhales before breathing the smoke out in twin clouds.

“Why me?” asked Lestrade.

“Senior enough to have the discretion to call me in,” said Sherlock, counting off on his fingers, “but not so senior that you worry too much about your reputation. High clearance rate says you’re competent, not the highest says you’re honest. And this case came up at the right time.”

“Right,” said Lestrade as they reached the tape perimeter. “Well, I’ll see you next time then. If I call you.”

“You will,” said Sherlock confidently. Lestrade laughed, the smile lingering and lighting up his face and suddenly Sherlock was acutely aware of just what shade of dark brown his eyes were.

Fuck.

…

Sherlock didn’t know Lestrade’s first name (he suspected that Lestrade had told him but if so he had managed to delete it). Sherlock didn’t know the date of Lestrade’s birthday. He didn’t know anything about Lestrade’s wife, other than that she was unfaithful. He didn’t know where Lestrade had gone to school, what football team he supported, or what music he listened to (though he could guess).

These ignorances were good. More troubling was the list of things he _did_ know about Lestrade.

He smoked Marlboro Reds.  
He wore shirts with a neck size of 17 inches.  
And a size T wedding ring.  
He preferred vindaloo to korma, and massaman to both.  
He drank coffee black if it was good but added two sugars if it had come out of a vending machine.  
He thought he could sing (true) and dance (false).

It was a cliche, whichever way you looked at it, and Sherlock Holmes was _never_ cliched. An affair with an older man who’s married and closeted? How about one with the handsome work colleague who lights his cigarette for him?

No.

Besides, Lestrade brought him _cases_ \- couldn’t risk jeopardising that. The Work came first and always would.

...

After the first few successes Lestrade got into the habit of popping round unannounced to Montague Street when he had an interesting case. They had a routine - Lestrade would hand Sherlock the case file, light them each a cigarette then go and make himself a cup of tea while Sherlock lay on the sofa and worked out what was missing. If necessary they’d go to the crime scene, but disappointingly few cases justified leaving the flat.

Sherlock was reasonably sure that Lestrade didn’t tell anyone about these visits – not his colleagues, not his wife. The latter fact was much more interesting than the former.

On one such occasion Lestrade had come round for the second time in a week with a stunning cold case. As this followed a dry spell of nearly three months, Sherlock had been delighted.

“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Sherlock when he eventually sat up and re-focussed his attention on the living room. “It was the hairdresser, check the boot of her car.”

Lestrade, standing on the far side of the room, didn’t reply. Instead he held out a small plastic bag at arm’s length.

Well. That was inconvenient.

“You’ve been snooping.” With the obvious corollaries. “You suspected that I might occasionally indulge in recreational pharmaceuticals, and brought me this lovely case so that I would be distracted while you searched my flat.” Sherlock injected every ounce of disdain he had into his voice.

Lestrade nodded, stony-faced. “I saw the marks last week.”

Oh, stupid. In the heat he must have rolled up his sleeves without thinking.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was bored.”

“You were … that is the worst fucking excuse I have ever heard.”

“That’s because you have no idea what it’s like to be bored with a brain like mine. I’m not an addict, by the way.”

“Not making it any better.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade’s tightly clenched fist and sighed.

“You’re not going to arrest me.”

“Of course I’m going to arrest you! You’re lucky I’m not doing you for intent to supply, the amount you’ve got here.”

They stared at each other.

“This is ridi-”

“Shut it. Just … don’t.”

Sherlock looked at the downturn of Lestrade’s mouth, the crease of his forehead, the resigned, disappointed look in his eyes. If he tried very, very hard, he might be able to pretend that the sight didn’t make his stomach twist.

…

Mycroft obliged with bail money (four hours later than he could have done, the sanctimonious bastard).

“You needn’t act surprised,” said Sherlock as the car pulled away.

“My dear brother,” said Mycroft in his most supercilious tone. “I’m only surprised that you got _caught_.”

He raised one eyebrow meaningfully. Sherlock turned to glare out of the window at the passers-by.

He didn’t give up the cocaine, because that would have meant acknowledging that this soft, foolish sentiment held power over him. But, in the interest of continued access to cases, he did decide to stop keeping it in the flat.

(It wasn’t like he couldn’t get it whenever he needed it, anyway.)

...

Lestrade came round empty-handed the next day.

“What,” Sherlock said to the ceiling.

“I came to see if you were ok.”

Sherlock ignored him. If he ignored people long enough, they usually went away.

“Oh, very mature. Look, I know quitting isn’t easy and-“

Sherlock groaned and sat up, swinging his legs off the sofa and planting his feet firmly in the ground. Evidently they were going to have a Conversation.

Brilliant.

“I told you. Not. An. Addict.”

Lestrade’s gaze flickered to Sherlock’s tatty pyjamas and dressing gown.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Unemployed, thank you very much. And, by the way, since when were drugs within your remit? Don’t they have a squad for that?”

An expression passed across Lestrade’s face too quickly to be recognised. “If you think that this was about my job, then you’re not the genius I thought you were. Look, if I keep bringing you cases, will you stay off the coke?”

“I might. Of course, you could always have sex with me instead.”

Lestrade gaped at him. “What?”

“Sex,” said Sherlock, taking a perverse pleasure in torching this bridge. “You’re interested and it would pass the time. Besides, it’s not like you’re getting any at home.”

Lestrade stared at him, his face unreadable. He wasn’t going to say yes (fortunate, as Sherlock hadn’t a clue what he’d do if Lestrade did), but Sherlock couldn’t predict exactly how he’d react. This was _fun_.

“If you’re up to being bitchy then you must be fine,” said Lestrade at last. “Look, I’ll bring you what I can, but I can’t manufacture murders for you.”

“You _could_ -“

“Won’t, then. Don’t you have private clients?”

“Yes,” lied Sherlock. “Lots.”

“Good. Well, I’ll be off then.”

He let himself out, leaving Sherlock to contemplate the distasteful matter of advertising.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock gave Lestrade’s address to the taxi-driver.

“Not Baker Street?”

Clearly a rhetorical question so Sherlock ignored it.

Lestrade was silent for a couple of minutes. “You and John,” he said eventually, having drawn completely the wrong conclusion, “did you ever want-”

“No,” snapped Sherlock.

“Right.” Lestrade didn’t sound convinced.

Sherlock sighed. “Mrs Hudson,” he says with considerable feeling, “is an infernal gossip.”

“Ah.” Lestrade thought for a moment and laughed. “Don’t want your landlady to know you’ve pulled, then.” He was mostly joking.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock, watching the pale sliver of Lestrade’s face that he could see reflected in the window. Lestrade’s reflection met his gaze, just for a moment, before looking away again. Sherlock felt like a tuning fork that had been freshly struck, his entire body ringing out at 440 Hz.

They arrived at Lestrade’s house in Vauxhall just after eleven. Having already taken the liberty of extracting Lestrade’s keys, Sherlock climbed out, walked straight up to the front door and let himself in, leaving Lestrade to deal with the small matter of the fare.

(John had looked at him thoughtfully once.

“What?”

“I just realised - Greg’s the only person you pick-pocket for fun.”

Sherlock had paused in his typing. “So?”

“Nothing. I just noticed, that’s all.”

Of all the times for John to finally become observant. Sherlock had had to resort to a small chemical fire to change the subject.)

Lestrade followed Sherlock inside and shut the door behind him. “Not very subtle.”

Sherlock ignored him in favour of prowling round the perimeter of the living room, inspecting everything.

“Drink?”

Sherlock took his jacket off and hung it on the back of a dining chair. “Yes. The scotch your sister sent you last Christmas.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

Sherlock paused in his examination of the bookshelves. “I think the real question is: do you want to know right now?”

Lestrade was silent for a moment. “No.” He went into the kitchen. Sherlock listened to him pour two large measures of scotch, then fill a pint glass with water from the tap and drink it all.

When Lestrade came back into the living room he was minus his jacket and shoes and Sherlock was flicking through the small pile of post that he’d found on the coffee table.

“Make yourself at home.” He handed one glass to Sherlock. “So.”

Sherlock took a sip of his scotch. It slid down his throat like silken fire. “I see you kept yourself busy while I was away. Six women since your divorce came through?”

The corner of Lestrade’s mouth twitched. “Five.”

Sherlock reviewed the evidence. _Oh_. “Five women and one man, then. What was he like?”

“Horrible.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t you.”

And just like that the wire snapped taut again.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Just so you know, I’ve got a spare room, so you needn’t feel -”

Sherlock stepped forward and pressed his mouth clumsily against Lestrade’s soft, open lips. He might have drawn back then but Lestrade kissed him back, sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth without hesitation. He tasted of smoke and whiskey.

Sherlock’s skin buzzed with anticipation. Five minutes earlier he’d been exhausted but now energy crackled through his body, sparking off shivers of pleasure and grounding through the polished wooden floorboards beneath his feet. He made a quiet, wordless sound, deep in his throat, and Lestrade kissed him harder. He wound one hand up into Sherlock’s hair and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, jaw, throat, his stubble scratching and abrading the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock found himself arching his neck in an unspoken request for more but Lestrade pulled away. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked, dark-eyed and breathing heavily.

Sherlock swallowed, put his glass down on the table. “Yes.”

He turned and walked briskly to the stairs, climbing them two at a time, Lestrade following a few paces behind. Sherlock entered Lestrade’s bedroom, kicked his shoes off and started unbuttoning his shirt with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers.

“There’s no rush, you know,” said Lestrade, flicking the light on.

Sherlock fumbled a cufflink and swore.

Lestrade crossed the room and stood in front of Sherlock. “Wait,” he said, catching Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Let me.”

Sherlock paused, breathed, and dropped his hands. Lestrade carefully took out the cufflinks and dropped them on top of his chest of drawers. “There.”

When he looked up, his eyes were soft and cautious and Sherlock couldn’t help kissing him.

Lestrade ran his large, capable hands up over Sherlock’s chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and pushed his shirt over his shoulders. Sherlock let it fall to the floor, not caring if it creased. Lestrade undid Sherlock’s trousers as they kissed and his knuckles brushed teasingly against Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock broke away, pulse racing. He pushed his trousers and underwear down and stepped backwards out of them. Conscious of Lestrade’s hungry gaze, he sat down on the bed and methodically took his socks off before leaning back on his elbows (as much to regain his composure as to show off). 

“Now you.”

Lestrade swallowed. ”Ok.”

He pulled his shirt and vest straight over his head in one move and Sherlock’s mouth went dry at the confident, unselfconscious motion of it. Lestrade’s chest was covered in thick, salt-and-pepper hair and Sherlock’s hands itched to touch it. 

“Now who’s rushing?”

Lestrade laughed, a shaky exhale of breath. “Eight years, Sherlock. Nothing rushed about that.” He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, shoved them and his underwear down and stepped out.

Lestrade’s legs were _magnificent_. Strong and muscular and hairy, bearing his solid weight with ease. Sherlock felt drunk with desire. He wanted to pour sweet almond oil on the crown of Lestrade’s bowed head and watch it flow, viscous and glistening, down the shapely contours of his body.

Sherlock realised that he’d been staring in silence for too long. “You’re still wearing your socks,” he pointed out.

“Don’t care.” But Lestrade took them off, standing on one foot at a time. “Happy?”

In lieu of an answer Sherlock sat up and caught him by the back of one knee. “Good enough,” he said, tugging Lestrade forward so that he stumbled in between Sherlock’s open thighs. Sherlock steadied him by grabbing his hips, holding him firmly in place so that Sherlock could _look_.

A dark trail of hair led Sherlock’s eyes down Lestrade’s chest to the soft, sparsely-haired curve of his stomach. Below that Lestrade’s cock jutted out proudly – average-sized with a nicely prominent head, and flushed dark with arousal. Sherlock wanted to _lick_ it. He wrapped one hand round the base to hold it still and pressed the flat of his tongue to the leaking slit. Not an unpleasant taste.

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced up. Lestrade was staring down at him with something close to wonder.

Leaving Lestrade’s cock alone for a moment, Sherlock skimmed his hands up the back of Lestrade’s thighs. His arse was fleshy but with a pleasing firmness, and slightly cooler to the touch than his stomach. Sherlock cupped his hands and squeezed greedily.

Lestrade exhaled sharply and tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

Suddenly impatient, Sherlock scooted back, twisted round, and had climbed halfway across the bed when a hand grabbed his ankle.

“Hang on a minute, I was enjoying that!”

Sherlock paused, hands and knees planted on the mattress, arse in the air. Not the most dignified position he’d ever been in.

“I want to have sex.”

“And we’re going to, but do you have to be in such a hurry?”

Sherlock stared at the plain blue fitted sheet stretched across the mattress. “You’ve changed your mind.”

“I have _not_. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock twisted his head over his shoulder to look at Lestrade. The exasperated expression on his face was very familiar.

“Sherlock, you’re stark naked and in my bed. _I’m_ naked. Do I look like I’ve changed my mind?”

Lestrade gestured to his erection and Sherlock looked. Kept on looking.

“I’m going to shag you through the _mattress_ , don’t you worry.” How absurd that an anticipatory shiver should run up Sherlock’s spine at those words. “We’ve got time for foreplay.”

“The end result will be the same,” said Sherlock, wriggling in Lestrade’s grasp.

“Oh, very romantic. Hold _still_.” Lestrade swatted Sherlock lightly on the behind and the stinging sensation flooded his skin with heat. Sherlock groaned quietly and arched his back without thinking.

“Are you ok?”

“Do that again.”

“You want me to … right, ok.” Lestrade rested his hand on the curve of Sherlock’s arse.

“You sure?”

No, but he was very curious. “Yes.”

Lestrade raised his hand and smacked it down. Sherlock heard the crack at the same time as his buttock tingled, and he could feel his cock swell.

“Again,” said Sherlock unsteadily.

“If you want me to stop, just say so-”

“Yes, yes, just get _on_ with it.”

Lestrade did. He smacked Sherlock’s arse steadily, changing hands without missing a beat. Each strike sent flames licking through Sherlock’s body, radiating out from his arse and flooding his system with endorphins. He felt dizzy, floating on a cloud of sensations; even his aching erection was no more than an afterthought. 

Sherlock let his head hang down and abandoned himself completely. With each slap he moaned a little more, sounding needy and debauched even to his own ears, until his throat was sore as well.

Lestrade didn’t stop. He turned his attention to Sherlock’s bare upper thighs, the soft sides of his buttocks, stinging right across the delicate skin of his cleft. His hands were methodical, thorough, working back and forth across Sherlock’s arse in a pattern that would have been horribly predictable if Sherlock had been capable of concentrating. Desperation skittered up his spine.

“Enough,” Sherlock gasped at last.

Lestrade stilled immediately, smoothed his palm tenderly over Sherlock’s glowing skin. “Are you alright? Did I-“

“I’d like you to fuck me now.” Sherlock slowly raised his head and looked over his shoulder. “If you’re amenable, that is.”

“Yeah,” breathed Lestrade, still caressing Sherlock’s arse, his cool hands a welcome relief. “Fuck, yeah.”

Lestrade grabbed condoms and a bottle of lubricant from the drawer of his bedside table as Sherlock crawled up the bed, liquid-limbed, and lay down on his back. The sheet felt rough on the tender skin of his buttocks.

Sherlock’s body fizzed with arousal. He touched himself slowly, languidly, intrigued by the increased sensitivity. 

“Don’t mind me,” said Lestrade, climbing onto the bed.

Sherlock stopped stroking his cock for a second. “Got bored waiting.”

“Isn’t that a surprise.” But Lestrade kissed him, open-mouthed and fierce, before shouldering Sherlock over onto his side.

“Christ, but you’ve got a nice arse,” he said, feeling it with gentle fingers. It still stung a little – a warm, prickly glow that made Sherlock’s cock throb.

Sherlock bent his upper leg, bringing the knee up to his chest in an unsubtle hint.

Lestrade snorted. “Yeah, alright.” His fingers disappeared, returning cold and slick a moment later. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock did, stroking himself loosely, pushing his foreskin up and down in an idle, indulgent fashion as Lestrade caressed Sherlock’s arsehole patiently with the pad of one wet finger. Oh, that was more than pleasant. Another set of nerve endings rang out in exquisite harmony with the notes already resonating through him. Lestrade kissed Sherlock’s neck gently, mouthing at the reddened skin, and pushed slowly inside.

Lestrade seemed content to fuck Sherlock slowly with his finger, brushing over his prostate seemingly by chance, playing his body with surprising skill and patience. He added another just as Sherlock was about to beg for further stimulation – Sherlock would have been appalled at himself if he could have spared the blood flow to his brain. Instead he closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him in waves – Lestrade’s thick fingers in his arse, Lestrade’s cock slip-sliding against the small of his back, Lestrade’s chest hair tickling his shoulder-blades, Lestrade’s mouth breathing hotly against his ear. His hand slipped from his cock and squeezed his balls, pushing them up against his perineum as he felt his orgasm start to build.

Lestrade pulled away. Sherlock only just stopped himself from whining.

“Condom,” he said by way of explanation, and Sherlock heard the crinkle of a foil packet being ripped open. He turned over and watched Lestrade roll the condom down his cock, hiding it underneath the slick, semi-opaque latex.

Sherlock was seized with a sudden urge to look at Lestrade’s face. He sat up. 

“Let me,” he said, swinging one leg over Lestrade’s folded legs so that he was kneeling above Lestrade’s lap. “Move back.” He pushed at Lestrade’s chest until Lestrade shuffled back against the wall and unfolded his legs.

Sherlock gripped Lestrade’s shoulders and scrutinised his expression. “Are you comfortable?”

Lestrade laughed.

“What?”

“You’re being considerate,” said Lestrade as he arranged the pillows behind his back. “It’s very disconcerting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed Lestrade’s cock at the base. “Hold still,” he instructed as he lined himself up. Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock pressed down.

It was slightly awkward at first, adjusting to the unfamiliar angle, but once he’d got the head fully inside he was able to sink smoothly down. More comfortable than silicone, with more give, and wonderfully hot inside him.

Lestrade ran his hands up Sherlock’s tensed thighs until they came to rest on his waist. “Fuck, you feel good. Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded. Rocked up and down, breathed, shuddered at the overwhelming fullness of it. “Brilliant. Oh, so brilliant.”

Lestrade took hold of Sherlock’s cock but Sherlock batted his hand away. “Not yet.”

“Ok.”

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed as he rose and fell at a gradually increasing pace. Lestrade was reassuringly solid and steady beneath him. 

“ _Ah_ , Lestrade-“

“Call me Greg,” said Lestrade urgently.

Sherlock stopped and opened his eyes, frowning. “Why?”

“Because we’re having sex, Sherlock! For fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock took in the tightened line of Lestrade’s kiss-swollen lips, the look of irritation and hurt in his large, lovely eyes. “Fine,” he said eventually. “ _Greg_.”

“Better.” Lestrade shifted his hands round to grope Sherlock’s arse, squeezing, lifting him fractionally up and pushing him back down onto Lestrade’s cock. “Come on, ride it.”

Sherlock let himself fall forward, hands slapping on the wall either side of Lestrade’s face. “Fuck.” He kissed Lestrade roughly, messily, thrusting his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth even as the rhythm of his hips became fast and frantic.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Lestrade slapped Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock jerked in surprise, moaned out loud. “Like that.” 

Lestrade smacked him again and again as Sherlock rode him at a desperate pace, thighs and arse burning and arousal spiralling up through his body until Lestrade grabbed his hips and held him still. Lestrade bent his legs so that his feet were flat on the mattress and his thighs were pressed against Sherlock’s tender buttocks. He thrust upwards, hard.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed. “Greg, fuck me, please.”

Lestrade did. Hands back on Sherlock’s hips, mouth against his swearing mouth, he fucked into him with the steady rhythm of a Bach fugue.

Sherlock took one hand off the wall and grabbed his cock, stroking rapidly to match Lestrade’s vigorous pace. “Don’t stop,” he muttered, noting the beads of sweat on Lestrade’s forehead and the red flush extending down to his chest. “Oh, for god’s sake, don’t stop- _ah!_ ”

His orgasm exploded through him like hydrogen catching fire, exploding through his body in a whoomph of heat and light. Lestrade came moments later with a deep thrust, pushing right up into Sherlock, and Sherlock could feel Lestrade’s cock twitch inside him.

“Jesus,” said Lestrade eventually, shakily. He pressed a long, soft kiss to Sherlock’s slackly open mouth.

Sherlock nodded, speechless. He took a moment to catch his breath then climbed off, wincing at the slight discomfort.

“Sorry.” Lestrade gave Sherlock’s knee an apologetic squeeze. He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, disposed of the condom and left the room. Sherlock managed to stir himself enough to wipe the come off his stomach with a handful of tissues as he listened to Lestrade move about the house.

Lestrade reappeared a few minutes later with two glasses of water. He set one down on each bedside table and turned the light off before climbing in and lying down beside Sherlock.

Sherlock studied the slight crease between Lestrade’s eyebrows. “This was a mistake.”

Lestrade cracked his eyes open. “Maybe,” he admitted, then grinned. “But it was a good one.” He stretched and yawned.

“I don’t-“

“Sh. Talk about it tomorrow.” Lestrade draped one arm across Sherlock’s waist, radiating heat and peaceful satisfaction. “Get the light, will you?”

Sherlock stretched one arm up and flicked the switch.

“Ta. Night.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Greg.”

...

Sherlock woke to find himself naked and sweaty in Lestrade’s bed. He had a headache and vaguely needed the toilet. Lestrade was also naked and curled round Sherlock, one arm draped loosely across his stomach. He was snoring lightly.

Sherlock glanced round the room, noting from the angle of sunlight slanting across the carpet that it was mid-morning, and was somewhat disconcerted to realise that the carpet was orange. _Orange_. Not only was it aesthetically indefensible but the fact that he hadn’t noticed it before meant that he’d been distracted the previous evening to an entirely unprecedented degree.

He stayed very still for five minutes, contemplating the implications of that, then reached towards the bedside table for Lestrade’s phone.

“Ngh,” said Lestrade, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s side. “Stay.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Sherlock had no answer for that. Or, at least, none that he cared to give right then. He settled back down and listened to Lestrade’s breathing steady and slow again. He estimated that he could stay in bed for at least half an hour before the pressure in his bladder became painful. His headache was not unbearable and could be easily fixed by a couple of paracetamol when they eventually did get up.

They. When _they_ got up. Not something that he’d ever considered in the plural before. Interesting.

“You do realise that this is just sex,” he said to the room, or himself. He wasn’t sure.

Lestrade snorted into his pillow. “And I thought you were the clever one. If this was just a shag, we’d have done it years ago.

“You have feelings for me.”

“Lots,” said Lestrade easily. “Some are even nice. How’s your arse?”

Sherlock flexed his buttocks. “Fine,” he lied.

“You can get your own back later if you like.” Lestrade’s voice was low and suggestive, and Sherlock felt his face heat. That was … quite an appealing prospect. He considered the matter in some detail until his thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Lestrade.

“Ah, bollocks.”

“What?”

“We need to quit smoking again.”

Sherlock hummed. Contemplated cigarettes, sex, nicotine withdrawal and sentiment. “Acceptable.”


End file.
